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When Clint finally came in through the door, he was treated to the sight of his husband, in soft jeans and a sweater, stretched out on the couch. He was reading a book, with his reading glasses on, and he was mostly covered by Melinda May's enormous probably-a-Maine-Coon cat.
Melinda herself was seated in the armchair, watching a muted, closed-captioned episode of some MMA fight and cackling quietly to herself. Worryingly, she was taking notes.
"Hey guys," Clint said. "What's up?"
Phil was smiling up at him, but making no effort to dislodge the enormous grey possibly-not-actually-a-domestic-cat from his legs. "Hey! Lasagna's in the oven, should be about another ten minutes or so. Our timing is great."
"Awesome. I'll just take a quick shower, then." He looked at Melinda, and then decided not to ask.
"That's right, Barton, move on along," Melinda muttered as she tapped something quickly on her phone.
Clint ignored this for the sake of peace, and headed off to shower off the gross. Gross was a thing that tended to happen, no matter what he did, whenever he went on missions or travelled. How he always ended up the target for small children or drunks to puke on, he did not want to guess.
The warmth of the shower was nice, and he ended up just staring at the wall for a minute or two without realizing it; when he snapped out of it, he finished showering, and went into the bedroom to put on something clean. Putting on actual clothes seemed like a terrible thing to do to himself, so he just put on his new favorite pajamas. He was looking forward to Melinda's commentary on them.
He came out into the living room to the grating electronic beeeeep of the oven, and Phil looked up and smiled at him again. "Would you mind taking it out of the oven? I might get mauled if I move." His expression turned into an outright grin when he noticed Clint's pajamas.
"Yeah, sure," Clint said. He looked at Melinda.
"I am a guest, Clint Barton," she said without looking away from the screen.
"I was going to ask if you wanted a beverage of some kind," Clint started. "But if you just want to make assumptions -" he laughed and dodged the sudden ball of crumpled paper she threw at his head, and headed into the kitchen.
Oven mitt, oven mitt - aha. "Where's the rest of the gang?" Clint asked as he carefully drew the lasagna out of the oven.
"Natasha's away someplace, so I'm watching the fight and texting her about it," Melinda told him. "How long does that need to cool?" she asked Phil.
"Give it a minute," Phil advised. "Molten cheese on the roof of your mouth isn't all that much fun."
"Fair. And then Jasper - what is Jasper doing?"
"He got stuck training the new recruit Fury brought in - the chef?"
"Oh, right. I kind of assumed he was just ranting about some foodie thing again and tuned him out."
"To be fair, he still could have been," Clint said.
"True. And then Fury said he was going to take a proper vacation even if he had to leave wreckage all throughout the country, so I imagine he's in some nice place freaking out assholes into silence."
"...he didn't grab the pamphlet off my desk, did he? Because that was missing." Phil said, suddenly wary.
"...he might have."
"Goddammit, that was the ski resort we were busting for weapons smuggling," Phil said, agitated now. "That's not a good vacation spot." He squirmed in an attempt to get at his phone, which the cat bore with an unusual amount of patience.
He dialled, and after a moment: "Hey, Nick - did you grab the ski resort pamphlet off my desk? The owners of that one have a weapons smuggling ring - uh huh. Right. Do you need backup?" Phil listened with only a couple of winces. "Right. Will do. Have a good weekend, sir." He ended the call and stared at the phone for a moment. "Well, shit."
"What's up?"
"Turns out he already found out that they were doing wrong - he took them all down. SHIELD's already there in force, and he's intent on enjoying his weekend there."
"Still?"
"Seems to be the case. Remind me to mix up another batch of hot chocolate for him later, please?"
"Sure thing." Clint grabbed a thing of the cat's food out of the fridge and put it on a plate. "Hey, dude, I need my husband please," he said to His Lordship the Duke of Purrsia when he got back out to the living room.
The cat considered this offering, then abandoned Phil to the cold, unforgiving living room air.
"Thank you so much, my legs were starting to go numb," Phil said. "However can I thank you, good sir?"
"A kiss would do it, I think," Clint said, pulling Phil up from the couch and into his arms.
"Would it? Then a kiss you shall receive," Phil said, and gave him a proper welcome-home kiss.
They continued the kiss until Melinda complained.
"Alright, alright. Food's ready, anyway," Phil said, and headed to the kitchen to plate the lasagna. "How much do you want, Melinda?"
"A lot." She looked up. "And - oh my god. Are those gingerbread men pajamas, Clint?"
She took another look. "Are those gingerbread men fucking?"
"They are!" Clint said proudly, turning in a slow circle to show off the pajama pants that depicted the gay gingerbread men Christmas Kama Sutra. "Took a damn long time to find, too."
"I need to know the place you got them from."
"Secret Santa present?" Phil asked, carrying plates of lasagna to them.
Melinda just cackled.
"I think Jasper's a medium," Phil told her.
"I'll break into his house just to be sure," she decided.
"It'd be easier just to pick the lock on his gym locker, but do as you like. Do you want me to bake matching gingerbread men to go with them?"
"...you have excellent ideas. Yes, please. And just picking the lock on his gym locker would not be enough of a challenge."
"Would you like to help ice them, or do you want me to do it all?"
Clint relaxed on the couch next to his husband, eating lasagna and listening as he and Melinda discussed and debated the best sexual positions to bake as gingerbread men and the feasibility of actually doing so.
He goddamn loved the holidays.